


Love Vaster Than Empires

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Series: Thy Willing Soul With Instant Fires [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Actually More Of A Feelings Brunch, Aftercare, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Caretaking, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom Phil Coulson, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Feelings Breakfast, Flying Coach Is The Worst, Happy Sex, Homecoming, Homesickness, Intercrural Sex, Jet Lag, Kinky, M/M, Marking, Naked Cuddling, Nipple Play, No Offense Meant To The Sacramento Airport, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Mission, Praise Kink, Protective Phil Coulson, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Sleepy Cuddles, Sleepy Sex, Sub Clint Barton, Terrible Business Travel Experiences, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 06:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18330188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: Clint never used to think of himself as a homebody. Turns out, it depends greatly on exactly whose body is in the home.(Phil's. It's Phil's body, and it is spectacular.)Further scenes in the lives of Clint Barton and Phil Coulson: kink and fluff, missions and cuddles, saving the world and falling ever more in love.





	Love Vaster Than Empires

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of the second arc of my series that started with All Our Strength and All Our Sweetness. If you haven't read that story, you might want to read it first for background and context. 
> 
> As with the previous fic, each chapter in this story is a standalone, complete scene in the ongoing universe unless previously noted. They go in order and all happen in the same universe, but I'm doing a single fic instead of a series for greater ease for people who download stories for e-readers and such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kathar for beta and to the Order of St Wilfrid for cheerleading!

  


Very few people knew it, but Clint was actually, for real and official, an FBI agent. Granted, it was a cover, but it was one of those official covers that involved memorandums—memorandi?—of understanding and cross-jurisdictional agreements and blah blah blah, the point was, the Feds got a boner for Clint’s skills sometimes and wanted to borrow him, and SHIELD was fine with it if Clint didn’t have another mission going. It wasn’t that unusual, for SHIELD; lots of agents had a cover or two like that. It was good for OpSec. Most bad guys would find a secret law enforcement identity and stop there, never realizing there was an even more secret identity that the first secret identity was hiding.

….that thought had gotten away from Clint a little. But anyway.

Clint was an FBI agent, at least sometimes, and usually it was cool; he was brought in to do tactical sharpshooting workshops at Quantico and sometimes do tricky sniper work on raids, that sort of thing. But the year before, he’d been pulled in because they desperately needed a new face for some undercover work. The whole thing had started out, more or less conveniently, in Chicago. Then, well, some shit had happened—there was this whole thing with some counterfeit maple syrup and the mob—and then Canada had gotten involved, and things got weird. Before Clint had realized what was happening he’d ended up in Honolulu, of all places, seconded from his first secondment to help some kind of wild-ass task force led by a Navy SEAL and an ex-cop from Jersey take down an international crime ring. 

Clint didn’t even know; this shit just seemed to happen to him sometimes. Phil just grinned at him when he brought it up and told him that was what Clint got for having a Chaotic Good alignment.

Phil was such a _nerd_. Clint adored it.

Anyway, Clint and the Chicago guys and the Mounties and the Hawaiian task force had made the bust. They’d wrapped everything up all neat and nice, and Clint had gone home to be a SHIELD agent some more, the whole thing a really great “no shit” story to tell over beers.

Until he’d gotten the summons to appear in court and remembered that, shit, real law enforcement people had to _testify at trials_.

It had been good to see everyone again, sure; they were good people. Clint even got in a surfing lesson or two, got a little tan on the weekend. But none of that was compensation for the fact that Real FBI Agent Clint Barton, about to testify in a Real Trial, had to actually fly on a goddamn federal commercial city-pair fare and stay in a government-rate hotel instead of hopping a quinjet and co-opting a SHIELD safehouse for the duration. Maybe he’d been spoiled by having consistent access to supersonic jets (probably he had, to be honest) but the only thing worse than flying without being behind the stick himself was flying with a bunch of short-tempered tourists who kept touching him in the crowd, or tripping over his feet, or hitting him with their giant bags, or kneeing his kidneys through the back of his chair, or barfing really loudly into a bag right next to him and then handing the bag to the flight attendant right across Clint’s lap while he froze in dread. And that was just on the way _there_.

The way back…

Okay, at least part of it was Clint’s fault, he knew that. He’d originally been scheduled to fly out several days later, but the defendant had taken an unexpected plea and the trial wrapped up early, and although it was tempting to take the chance to get some beach time in, Clint just… didn’t want to stay there by himself when he could be back in New York with Phil. He missed Phil, missed seeing him comfortable and unguarded, doing little projects around the apartment. Missed eating with him, on the couch in front of the TV—or, when one of them felt like being fancy, at the goddamn kitchen table like some kind of sitcom people with, like, place settings and footsie under the table. It had never seemed worth the bother, when Clint lived alone. 

Plus, playing footsie with yourself was just kinda weird.

He missed the sex, too, of course. _God,_ did he miss the sex. He’d been having increasingly fervent showers the longer he stayed away, he missed it so much, especially since the time difference made phone sex logistically difficult. The only hours where they were both awake, one of them was working. Getting all horned up at work was fun to fantasize about, sure, but in reality it was just awkward and embarrassing and lonely, so they’d contented themselves with workplace-appropriate check-ins and—at least on Clint’s part—the aforementioned showers.

(He really needed to get Phil to make him, like, a sexy mp3 or something for this sort of occasion. Like a meditation tape, but for jerking off. They could put it on a biometric drive or something so nobody else could hear it. That would be awesome.)

Anyway, Clint had a lot of very good reasons to go back early, so he got his ticket changed, went out for a last celebratory dinner with his colleagues, and then checked out of his hotel and booked it to the airport to catch the red-eye. He logged his itinerary change with SHIELD as per protocol, but didn’t call Phil; he wanted to surprise him. The flight was kind of tricky, with an awkwardly short middle-of-the-night layover to change planes in Sacramento, but it would put him in to LaGuardia round about suppertime, which should hopefully give them time to celebrate Clint’s return (ahem) for an hour or two before Clint collapsed into their bed—which was superior to any other, since it was big, soft, warm, and had a Phil in it—to try and sleep off his jet lag.

It had been such a _good_ plan, Clint thought wistfully, as his flight out of Sacramento entered the beginning of hour three of sitting on the runway. He’d already watched a whole Jason Statham movie (decent, though he could never quite turn off the inner voice that critiqued the fight choreography) and was more than halfway through some George Clooney drama thing, though he kept dozing off. He wasn’t sure if George was supposed to be a criminal or, huh, maybe a journalist or something? He was possibly uncovering a conspiracy, or possibly struggling through the banality of modern existence. It was hard to tell when you were watching it in twenty-second spurts between micronaps and your eyes were too blurry from fatigue and dry plane air to read the captions.

When he’d booked an overnight flight, he’d fallen back on his preferred travel patterns, but he hadn’t really thought it through; turns out that Clint’s belief that he slept great on planes was only true when the plane was a SHIELD transport, and Clint was falling asleep with his head on Phil’s shoulder, feeling the flex of his arm as he filled out AARs on his tablet. On a commercial flight, surrounded by strangers? It might be some ungodly hour of the night, but Clint’s fatigue couldn’t overcome his field instincts; he kept jerking awake at every touch or sound.

In a plane full of grumpy people who didn’t want to be coming home from their vacation and who had been sitting on the runway for three hours without a meal, there were a _lot_ of touches and sounds to be had.

Ugh. _Planes._

The first leg hadn’t been so bad. Most of the passengers had settled in to sleep pretty quickly, and Clint had read for a while and then listened to music for a while longer with his eyes closed, trying to at least relax if he couldn’t sleep. He might possibly have spent more time than was prudent brainstorming about stuff he wanted to do with Phil once he got back, and then had to pull back into thinking about stuff he wanted to do with Phil _while they were both wearing clothes_ to prevent an inappropriate mid-flight boner. Still, it was fun and passed the time and made Clint feel all warm and melty inside, so on the whole he’d made it to Sacramento in a pretty good mood. He’d booked it across the airport with his carry-on in good time to make his connecting flight, though they’d been a little delayed in landing so he hadn’t had time to grab any food.

(Not that there was much open after midnight in the Sacramento airport, but still, he could have at least grabbed some coffee and a muffin or something. Dinner had been a long time ago.)

He’d made it to the gate just as his section was boarding, and was fortunately the last of the people in his row to arrive; he stowed his carry-on and folded himself into the seat on the aisle as best he could. (Commercial flights, no matter where you sat, weren’t exactly built for people as broad in the shoulder as Clint was.) Journeys like this always felt a little eerie to Clint, like he was unmoored in time, cruising in a strange little pocket universe.

And then the announcements had started.

They were being held back for a few minutes to clear the runway, and then they had to get a slight mechanical issue resolved, and then they had to wait for a part, and then they were “just going to take a bit longer before they could get underway,” and then the captain was turning on the in-flight entertainment for them while they waited, and now they’d been on the runway for three hours, so they were pulling back in to the airport so that the passengers could deplane if they wanted, but they should stay close to hear when the plane was boarding again!

Clint reclaimed his bag and shoved his earphones in his pocket. He joined the crowds shuffling off the plane, determined to at least get in a stretch and a piss and find some food before the pounding in his temples devolved into even further misery. He thought longingly of Phil as he crossed back into the terminal; just then, he wanted nothing on earth more than to curl up on the beanbag chair between Phil’s knees, rest his aching head on Phil’s thigh, and let Phil stroke his hair and feed him nibbles of cheese.

A gate agent, taking pity on them, met them at the door with directions to the nearest restrooms and the one food stall in the terminal that was still open at ass-o’clock in the morning. They shuffled that way like something out of a zombie movie. Clint, judging that if he could only do one thing it should be getting food, resisted the temptation to peel off when they passed the men’s room and dedicated himself to not hip-checking his way to the front of the line.

Just because he _could_ didn’t mean he _should_ , after all. 

The food stall—which bore the improbable name of “Wieners on the Wing”—was obviously not prepared for the ravening horde. There was just one guy working there, and he’d pretty obviously been studying behind the counter; he had a fat textbook propped up on the cash register and was scribbling equations in a ratty spiral notebook. When the first of the passengers reached him, he just stared at them for a moment, as though completely unable to parse the fact that there were multiple people wanting to buy his paltry and unappetizing stock of hot dogs.

“Dude,” the girl who had gotten there first said. “Come on, we gotta be ready to get back on the plane in like, ten minutes, and I haven’t eaten in seven hours.”

“Sorry! Um, sorry,” Wiener Guy said, and disappeared his homework behind the counter. “Um, may I take your order?” 

Clint could see the problem looming pretty quickly; whoever was in charge of stocking Wieners on the Wing obviously did so on the assumption that all the scheduled flights would actually _fly,_ instead of sitting on the tarmac for hours and then disgorging dozens of hangry people with no other food options. As soon as he realized the size of his line, Wiener Guy put more dogs on the roller grill, but Clint was worried it would be too little, too late.

Clint got to the head of the line just in time to see the last of the pre-cooked hot dogs handed over to the lady in front of him, whose seat was across the aisle from Clint’s. Clint tried not to feel too resentful that she got the last hot dog when he knew damn well she’d been eating a pretty steady stream of Lara bars and trail mix out of her purse the whole time they’d been sitting in the plane.

Phil was always the one who remembered to pack snacks. 

Clint leaned heavily on the counter and sighed. “Okay, man,” he said. “How long for those dogs to be ready?”

“Um,” the guy said, glancing down at the timer on the roller grill. “Eight minutes?”

Just then, the speakers came on. “Passengers on American Flight 1616 for New York-LaGuardia, please return to gate C14 for boarding. Again, that’s flight 1616 to New York, now boarding at gate C14.”

The line of people behind him groaned.

“Fuck my life,” Clint said. “Do you have, like, a microwave or something? We’re kind of in a hurry.”

“No, man, sorry,” Wiener Guy said.

“Just give it to me cold, then.”

“Um, I can’t? It’s against the health code or something. I’m not allowed.”

Clint briefly considered reaching over the sneeze guard and making a grab for a dog, then thought better of it. If he ended up detained by the TSA tonight, he’d never get back home, and then Phil would make a sad face and Clint would have to go be a hermit and live in a yurt on the steppes of Mongolia to expunge his shame.

“What _can_ you sell me?” he asked.

Ten minutes later, Clint was settling into his seat (again), clutching a styrofoam cup full of hot dog chili with some cheese and onions sprinkled on top and a paper sack containing a snack size bag of Fritos, a wad of napkins, a plastic spoon, and a room-temperature can of Tab.

He didn’t even realize they still _made_ Tab.

He made the best of his sad… what meal even was it? Really early breakfast? Really late dinner? That stupid “fourthmeal” thing Taco Bell tried to make happen a while back? Anyway, he ate it while the plane idled on the runway some more, and then drank the Tab as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t have to taste it much, and then was too late to suppress a massive belch that had everyone in about three rows turning to give him the evil eye while he sheepishly tried to pretend he didn’t know what they were looking at him for.

He just. He just wanted to be _home._ He wanted to strip down and put on sweatpants that smelled like Phil’s laundry detergent and curl up against Phil and maybe Phil would do that thing he did that was half playing with Clint’s hair and half scalp massage, and Clint’s headache would go away, and then they could get to the sexy reunion part of the day, which was honestly just about all that was keeping Clint going at the moment.

Well, okay, maybe Clint would eat something first. For stamina. But after that.

Clint was halfway into an elaborate and frankly unlikely daydream that Phil had installed a sex swing in the apartment as a surprise and would just put Clint in it for a while to alternately nap and be fucked when he realized that the plane was finally, _finally_ taking off.

Six and a half hours to home. Maybe seven, if they caught a bad wind. Say maybe an hour or two to get his bag and get home; just eight or nine hours until Phil.

He settled his earbuds and closed his eyes, determined to at least rest a little if he couldn’t sleep. Resting still helped; _Mythbusters_ had tested it that time.

As the plane flew into the sunrise, he finally lapsed into an uneasy doze, only rousing to force himself to hydrate every time the drink cart came by and stretch his legs as much as he could to keep his circulation going. He ate some pretzels, drank some tomato juice, and tried to read, but as the plane got ever closer to New York he found himself slipping straight through exhaustion and into a sort of half-wired stupor.

With any luck, it would last until Clint got himself home.

Naturally, they had to circle LaGuardia for an age before they landed, and then the bags got sent to a different carousel than the sign said they were, and then Clint’s duffel was somehow the last one disgorged from its bowels. Normally he took transit to and from airports when he wasn’t flying SHIELD air—a lifetime growing up poor left him with an instinctive disinclination to take cabs—but today? Fuck it, the least the FBI owed him was a cab home.

Home home home home home. He was _so close._

Naturally, the best route home was blocked with some sort of construction, and the second best one was blocked with… some sort of car accident or something, by that point Clint’s eyes felt like boiled eggs and everything was just blurry haloes of red and blue lights. When he finally got home it was after eleven, and no light was showing under the apartment door.

He let himself in quietly. Clint hadn’t been keeping up with SHIELD news while he was gone, so he had no idea if Phil had any special ops going. He might not even be home. He might be home, but asleep. Clint should have forgotten the surprise idea and just _called_ him, so at least he’d have known if he were coming home to an empty apartment or not.

He put his bags down in the foyer, unable to face the idea of unpacking, and paused, torn between going to the kitchen—that cup of wienerless wiener toppings wore off long ago—or going to the bedroom. In the end, he split the difference, grabbing a Gatorade and some string cheese out of the fridge and shoving it down his gullet in like three gulps, then taking the rest of the Gatorade bottle with him to look for Phil.

He didn’t turn on any lights, and tried to walk soft; if Phil was asleep that early, it was because he needed to be asleep, and they’d been on enough separate missions since they moved in together that they could both sneak into bed without waking the other as long as they were quiet. Clint loved knowing that Phil’s dreaming mind accepted Clint as something that belonged, something trusted, something safe. 

The bedroom door was ajar, and the dim light from the window was enough to show a beautiful Phil-shaped lump under the covers. Clint just stood there for a while, looking; Phil’s profile in the moonlight was a work of art, like something off an old gold coin, the best thing Clint’s eyes had seen in forever, felt like.

Clint sighed, and peeled out of his gross, airplane-y clothes, letting them fall where he stood. The little draft from the air vent tickled his bare skin and he felt himself relax a little more; nudity plus Phil’s presence was by now pretty well ingrained in his subconscious as a positive state of affairs. His groin tingled a little—that set of circumstances was also pretty well ingrained as _sexy times ahoy_ —but he was too exhausted to actually get hard, his extremities chilly like his blood was all sulking around his organs until he went to sleep.

Clint’s side of the bed was empty, but as he went around to it he saw that Phil was curled around Clint’s pillow, one arm stretched out into the space where Clint’s waist currently wasn’t, but should be.

“Aw, darlin’,” Clint whispered. “I missed you too.” 

Phil stirred a little, and Clint froze, trying to decide what to do. There was no way he was sleeping on the couch after everything he’d been through to get home, but there was also no way to get his pillow out of Phil’s arms and make room for himself in bed without rousing Phil at least a little.

Phil’s hand flexed into the quilt like he was looking for something, and Clint’s decision was made.

“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice quiet but not a whisper. “Phil. I’m home.”

Phil’s face scrunched, and he drew in a sharp breath, then blinked his eyes open; it was the way he woke when he was on duty, and Clint wondered if he had something going on at work or if it was just the sudden, middle-of-the-night waking.

“Surprise,” Clint said, spreading his hands in a low-energy sort of _tah-dah_. “I got done early.”

Phil blinked at him for a second, as though he wasn’t sure Clint was really there, and then a soft, gorgeous smile broke over his sleep-creased face. _“Oh,_ ” he said, and scrambled to sit up, reaching for Clint and tugging him down into the bed, into his arms, pulling Clint in close to his broad bare chest and burying his face in Clint’s hair, breathing in deeply and scattering kisses at random wherever his lips happened to land. “Oh,” he murmured again, as Clint sprawled half in his lap, his feet hanging off the side of the bed, and tried to wrap himself around Phil like Clint was a koala and Phil was a particularly tasty eucalyptus tree. “Sweetheart.”

“Hi,” Clint said, into the soft thin skin on top of Phil’s pulse. He could feel it beating against his lips, so he took a little taste. Mm, salty. 

“I was just dreaming about you,” Phil said, and his voice was still blurred with sleep, his body warm and heavy and loose-muscled. He was everything Clint had been aching for, all that eternally long trip; he was _home_.

“Oh, yeah?” Clint lipped along Phil’s collarbone a little. “Was I doin’ something sexy?”

Phil huffed a little chuckle and twisted his hips, pressing himself up into Clint’s thigh, and oh, mmm, he was so hard it made Clint whimper a little. 

“Oh, _yeah,_ ” Clint said again. “That’s the ticket, baby, god.” He wriggled around enough to slip a hand down until the covers—not that easy, since he was pretty much on top of them—and give Phil a little hey-I-missed-you stroke. Phil was sleeping in boxers and his cock felt almost blazing hot through the thin, damp cotton. Phil’s arms tightened around Clint, his breath shuddering as Clint’s fingers grazed him.

Clint sighed, half contentment at being home—at last, at _last_ —and half wistfulness; now that he was there, now that he had Phil _right there_ against him all hot and eager, his brain was reacting the way it always did, wanting Phil to just go to town on him, any way he wanted. But Clint’s body simply wasn’t there; some combination of jet lag and fatigue and heartburn and probable dehydration had pretty much shut down all his bodily functions to the bare minimum. Normally Phil palming his ass in the way he currently was would at least _start_ Clint on the road to bonerville—hell, lately, anytime he was naked in the presence of Phil and a bed he’d get in the mood—but even though Phil’s touch felt amazing, Clint’s dick was currently unable to do more than twitch a little, now and then. 

“You sound tired,” Phil said, and his voice sounded like… like… 

“Y’sound like hot chocolate,” Clint mumbled into Phil’s shoulder.

“…gurgly?”

Clint poked him in the side. “Not like it sounds. Like it feels. You know. Like, warm an’ sweet. Like someone did something nice to make you happy.”

“Oh,” Phil said, that little pleased, almost surprised note in his voice that meant that people had just not paid him enough compliments in his life.

Clint was working on that, now that he’d really internalized the fact that Phil actually did care what Clint thought of him. It had taken him longer than he liked to admit, which was why it was honestly a good thing that SHIELD had mandatory regular therapy for all active field personnel. 

But anyway. 

Phil was stroking Clint’s bare flanks, running deliciously warm hands over him, back and ass and thighs. “When did you leave Hawaii?”

“Um,” Clint said. “What day’s it?”

“Thursday.”

“Ugh.” Clint tried to count. “Time zones suck. I left… last night, I think? We got delayed in Sacramento, or I’d’ve been here hours ago.” He grumbled. “I was gonna surprise you with dinner then sit on your cock for like an hour.” Phil’s cock pulsed beneath him, and Clint groaned. “But I don’t think I could even sit _up_ for another hour, let alone anything fun. Stupid planes.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Phil said, letting his stroking hand slip from Clint’s ass to cup protectively over his still (nearly) completely soft cock. “I would have loved that. But I love this, too. The bed’s too cold when you aren’t here.”

Clint ducked his head back into Phil’s shoulder, his face warming. “I knew it, you only love me for my body heat.” 

“Your body heat is only a minor part of why I love you,” Phil said, like it was no big deal to just put it out there like that. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it, though.” He squeezed Clint closer for a moment, then let go with one hand so he could tug the covers down a little on Clint’s side. “Why don’t you get in here with me? I know I’ll sleep better, having you back where you belong.”

“Mm, take your shorts off first,” Clint said. “I wanna feel you.”

“Deal,” Phil said, stifling a yawn. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I woke you up, it’s cool,” Clint said, reluctantly peeling himself away so he could get under the covers. Phil wriggled around a little, then pulled his boxers out from under the covers and tossed them toward the hamper. As soon as he was settled back down again, he turned onto his side toward Clint and lifted his arm invitingly.

Clint cuddled in eagerly. The hot brush of Phil’s skin against his was the best thing he’d felt in so long; he felt like a string of knots were unraveling throughout all his muscles. He held Phil tight, tangling their legs together and just breathing the scent of him. Phil’s cock was tucked up between them, leaving faint sticky trails on Clint’s abs. Clint’s jaw ached with how much he wanted a taste, but the thought of actually getting down there was impossible. It was like the minute he’d stopped moving, all his limbs had gone off-shift for the night.

“God,” he mumbled. “Y’re so hard, babe. I wish…”

Phil kissed his temple. “I’ll keep,” he said. “Maybe it’ll give me good dreams. You just rest, we can have our reunion in the morning.” 

“Yeah,” Clint said, and closed his eyes, expecting unconsciousness to basically whack him on the back of the head with a giant cartoon mallet.

It didn’t. 

He lay there for a while, just enjoying being home, being in his bed, being with his lover—but then his nose started itching and his hip twinged a little from the angle he was lying at, so he murmured an apology and turned over so Phil could spoon him. That’d be it, he thought. Phil all warm behind him, his arm around him, his cock fitting so neatly pressed along the crack of Clint’s ass, mmm. He’d drift right off and have sexy dreams and then wake up refreshed and they could get to making them all come true.

There was… no drifting. The whole time he’d been on his way home, he’d wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but at some point in the journey he’d apparently crossed into Horrible All-Nighter Second Wind territory, that point where your body decided that you must be being chased by a bear or something or you’d obviously have gone to sleep by now, so helpfully dumped a load of wake-up-danger bullshit chemicals into the bloodstream. Now that Clint didn’t have the get-home-and-collapse goal ahead of him, all those bear-fleeing instincts were keeping him jittery and wired.

God, after everything, was he gonna have to go sack out on the couch and watch insomnia-TV?

Phil patted his hip. “You’re tense,” he said, kissing the back of Clint’s neck. “You okay?”

“I can’t sleep,” Clint admitted, feeling like his entire being slumped. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m keeping you awake, aren’t I? I’ll go watch TV or something.”

Phil’s arm tightened around him. “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “You just got home. Maybe I could do something to help you settle?”

“I know what I _wish_ you could do,” Clint muttered sulkily. “But I’m not good for much right now.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Phil said. 

“You know what I mean.” Clint said, gesturing groinwards. 

“You’re exhausted,” Phil said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t feel good.” 

Clint’s breath caught a little at the promise in Phil’s voice. “Oh?” he said. “What, ah, what’d you have in mind?”

Phil started tracing his fingers over Clint’s stomach, moving slowly upwards to his chest. “Oh, any number of things,” he said, his breath on Clint’s ear making him shiver. Phil circled around one nipple, then the other, teasing but not touching, and Clint twitched with the sudden, contradictory desires to push his nipple into Phil’s hand and to lie absolutely still and show Phil how _good_ he could be.

“Su—” Phil finally brushed a nipple with his fingertip and Clint’s voice caught in the middle of the word. “Such as?”

“Nothing too strenuous.” Phil kissed the back of Clint’s shoulder. “I know you’re tired, love. All you’d have to do is lie there and hold still for me and let me take care of you.” His hand skimmed over Clint’s flank, cupped his hip. “I can fuck you, if you want,” he offered. “But only if you feel up to it.”

Clint groaned. “God, I wish,” he said. “Raincheck? I think I need about twelve hours’ sleep and a hot shower, first.”

“Of course.” Phil kissed him again, solid and warm and safe at Clint’s back, reaching down to comb his fingers through Clint’s pubic hair and over his soft cock, gentle and delicious.

“Feels so good,” Clint sighed. “Nobody ever touched me like you.”

“Good.” Phil nipped the curve of his shoulder, too softly to do anything but pinch a little, and Clint chuckled. He loved it when Phil got… proprietary, over him, when he made Clint feel claimed. Phil could keep Clint forever, as far as Clint was concerned, and it was deeply affirming when it seemed like maybe Phil wanted to.

Clint arched his back, pushing his ass back into Phil’s cock. It felt so good, hot and thick and wet at the tip, and Clint felt almost itchy with how much he wanted it. 

Phil’s arms tightened around him, and he threw one leg over Clint’s, holding him still. “Let me do the work,” he said, his breath shivery-good on Clint’s neck. Clint’s stubborn dick fattened a little more, but that just made it more frustrating.

“I just… I want to be closer,” Clint said, trying not to whine. “Want to, to wrap myself all up in you, it’s been so long and I’ve been so horny all week, but…”

Phil made a soft, considering sound. “I think I know something that’ll give you what you need. Hang on a sec.” He pulled away, making Clint shiver with the sudden chill, and pulled something out of the nightstand drawer.

“Open your legs for me?” he said, patting Clint’s thigh. 

“Anytime, baby,” Clint said, moving his legs apart. “You have an idea?”

Phil flipped the top on the lube and squirted a generous amount into the palm of his hand. “I can’t fuck your ass right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fuck you at all,” he said. “This might be a little cold.” He smeared lube between Clint’s thighs, up into the crack of his ass, and along his perineum to his balls. Clint shivered.

“You have the best ideas,” he said.

“I try.” Phil slicked the rest of the lube over his cock, then set the bottle on the nightstand. He shifted a little, lining himself up. “Hold yourself open,” he murmured, and Clint reached around to spread his asscheeks, feeling his face heat. It felt so dirty, just exposing himself like that; he loved it, though, loved that Phil would ask it and loved to do it for Phil.

“Perfect,” Phil said, and he settled back down behind Clint, nestling his cock down between Clint’s cheeks. “Let go,” he said, kissing a warm line down the back of Clint’s neck. “Put your legs back together, try to hold me in.”

Clint obeyed, clenching his ass and thighs around Phil’s cock, and then Phil took a long, luxurious thrust that Clint could feel hitting every hot spot from balls to asshole. “Fuck, that’s amazing.” 

“Mmm, for me, too,” Phil said. He rubbed his stubbly cheek against the back of Clint’s shoulder, making him shiver again at the delicious rasp of it. “Can you keep that pressure up for me? Make a nice hot tight place for me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Clint breathed, clutching a little at Phil’s arm. “Yes sir, yeah, please.”

“Hold still,” Phil said, giving Clint’s nipples a pinch and then a stroke, making him moan. “Let it come to you, don’t chase it.” He started moving again, keeping his pace steady and slow as he traced the lines of Clint’s abs down to his groin, where his dick was making a valiant attempt to chub up despite all forces to the contrary.

“You’re so tired, my poor love,” Phil said, his voice warm and soft and intimate, right in Clint’s ear and interspersed with love-bites and little kisses. “You tried so hard to get home to me. Thank you. It means the world to me, that you wanted so much to come home.”

“Missed you,” Clint said. He hadn’t done a transitional shower and he wasn’t tied up or anything, but he was starting to feel the warm creeping softness he got in a scene, anyway; it was something about being so tired and feeling so safe and loved and wanted, holding himself in place for Phil to kiss and fuck and play with, surrounded by him after so many nights alone. “Always do.”

“Always come home to me,” Phil whispered, his grip tightening on Clint’s dick. He didn’t vary the pace of his thrusts, but his voice went rough. Maybe it was just the night air; maybe it was something else. It didn’t matter. The answer was the same, either way.

“I will,” Clint said, and he squeezed tighter down around Phil, gripped Phil’s forearms; holding on with everything he had. “I will if you will.”

“For as long as you want me.” Phil’s clever fingers rolled Clint’s balls, twisting his arousal up a bit more. Even though he wasn’t getting very hard, he could still feel it, building and zinging along his nerves. “If there’s breath in my body. I promise.”

“Fuck.” Clint whined, deep in his throat. “Phil, please, I need—” he broke off, quivering at the effort of staying still, his body lit up with want, straining to rock back into Phil’s thrusting and forward into his hand.

“What, sweetheart? Tell me so I can give it to you. I want to give it to you,” Phil said. “Give you everything you want, everything you need.”

“More?” Clint sucked in a shuddery breath as one of Phil’s thrusts skidded just so along his rim. “Yes, there, more, please sir, please can I—”

“Shh, yes, I won’t leave you wanting.” Phil craned his neck, reaching forward to drop a soft kiss on Clint’s cheek, close to his mouth. “You’re being so good, holding still for me and taking my cock so sweet. You take everything so beautifully, love, you’re like a work of art.” He shifted a little, freeing up a hand to stroke over one of Clint’s. “Can you help me, sweetheart? Want something to do with those pretty hands?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint panted, grunting a little and trying to clench his thighs tighter, get more pressure from Phil’s thrusts.

“Always my good boy,” Phil said, running his teeth along the meat of Clint’s shoulder. “Play with your nipples, sweetheart, but not too hard. Tease yourself, don’t stop until I say.”

Clint obeyed, reaching up with both hands to pinch lightly at his stiff nipples, and he sucked in a breath as the sensation seemed to jolt right down his spine, lighting up his nervous system. It was like they were wired right in to his ass and his dick, magnifying what Phil was doing even more. Clint closed his eyes, devoting his attention to what he could hear and smell and feel. Phil was behind him, anyway, so there wasn’t that much to look at.

“Mmm.” Phil kissed a warm line from Clint’s jaw to his shoulder. “I can feel your muscles quivering around me. I can tell how good it feels, how hard it is for you not to move. What do you want to do right now, baby? If you weren’t holding still for me, what would you do?”

What _would_ he do? Flail around like a landed fish, probably, trying to get more contact everywhere at once, get the taste of Phil on his tongue. “Touch you,” Clint managed, flicking lightly at his nipples. Phil hadn’t said to stop yet. “T—taste you. Lick your cock.”

Phil made a low, approving sound, rumbling through his chest; Clint could feel it on his back where Phil was pressed against him. “So generous,” Phil said. He sped his thrusts a little, angling to drag along Clint’s perineum. “I’ve always loved that about you, you’re so giving, so selfless.” He touched the back of Clint’s hand gently. “Keep going, I’ll be right back,” he said, and moved his hands away from Clint’s dick. Clint bit back a disappointed whine; Phil kept his promises, he wouldn’t leave Clint hanging.

Phil paused the motion of his hips, and Clint could feel him reaching for something. A plastic click and a splurt, and then he settled back firmly at Clint’s back, nudging his cock right up so the head teased the back of Clint’s balls. “Good job, sweetheart,” he said, low and warm and pleased in Clint’s ear. “You’re doing exactly right.”

Clint couldn’t help preening a little at the praise; part of him knew he wasn’t doing anything that difficult or special, but a bigger part was just happy to bask in Phil’s approval.

“Are your nipples getting sore?” Phil asked. “They’re starting to get a little red, love. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“‘M not,” Clint said. “Um, they are a little? But I like it, feels good.” 

“Good sore?” Clint could hear Phil’s smile in his voice, feel it as he pressed more kisses to Clint’s cheek and jaw.

“Yeah.” 

“Let me help a little,” Phil said. “Here, hands off for a second.”

Clint lifted his hands away from his chest. With the sudden absence of stimulation, his nipples throbbed, prickling and stiff in the cool air. He wanted… something, but before he could put his thoughts together enough to ask, Phil had swiped a wet, slick finger across each nipple in turn. Clint sucked in a little breath, clenching his abs to stop himself from pushing into the sensation.

“Okay, keep going,” Phil said, and Clint obediently put his hands back on his nipples, shivering as he rolled the newly-slippery flesh between his fingers.

“Better?” Phil murmured.

“Yeah, ’s good,” Clint said, alternating between circling around and rubbing over and pinching. It all felt amazing.

“Perfect,” Phil said. “God, that’s a pretty sight, baby, you working yourself over like that for me. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Clint snorted a little. “Mirror,” he said, because no way was _Clint_ the looker in this relationship. 

“Mm, next time,” Phil said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “I could set you up in front of one, let you watch while I worked you over.” 

“Oh _fuck_ yeah,” Clint said, because the only bad part about bondage was that sometimes it limited his angle to watch Phil get all steely-eyed Agent On A Mission in bed, which was a sight well worth seeing.

“But in the meantime,” Phil said, and he reached back down to Clint’s groin again.

“Ohhh,” Clint moaned, as Phil’s warm deft fingers closed around him and stroked, coating his dick and his balls with more of the lube he’d dabbed on Clint’s nipples. “Oh fuck, Phil, yeah, please…”

“I will, I will, I promise, don’t worry,” Phil said.

“Fuck me more, please sir?” Clint gave his nipples a sharp little pinch, a dash of spice in the slick hot goodness he was feeling everywhere.

“Of course, love. Keep playing with your tits for me, however it feels good.” He started thrusting between Clint’s cheeks again, this time jerking Clint’s half-hard cock in a twisting motion that felt amazing. “If you feel like you can come, go right ahead, but you don’t have to, okay? I just want you to feel good.”

“Yessir.” Clint concentrated on Phil, his sleep-warm skin and the familiar scent of him, the thick hot press of his cock and the delicious twist of his hands. Even Clint’s own attentions to his nipples almost felt like Phil was the one doing it, because he’d told Clint to, so Clint was doing it for him. He held himself braced against Phil’s thrusting, muscles flexed but not uncomfortably tense, and just let the sensations wash over him, surrounding him. It was so good, to be wrapped up in Phil, in his touch and his loving attention, to be in their bed again, to be home after so long.

He didn’t know how long he stayed in that moment, but eventually he noticed a change, pleasure building up, coiling diffusely all around his hips, making his cock twitch and leak a little on Phil’s hand even though he still wasn’t hard all the way.

“That’s it, baby, enjoy it,” Phil said, soft and gentle between kisses and nibbles on the shell of Clint’s ear. “Let yourself have it, take what I want to give you. You’re doing so well.” 

It built and built, impossibly, while Phil sped the pace of his thrusts and his hand, murmuring praise and endearments into Clint’s ear. Clint started making sounds, not even paying attention to them, plucking and twisting his nipples with greater and greater urgency. Phil tightened his fist and somehow managed to reach Clint’s balls with his other hand, and he rolled them once, twice; Clint stiffened, and arched, and came, a weird orgasm that felt like it came equally from his dick and his ass and his chest.

“There you go, just like that, sweetheart.” Phil gasped, and then he thrust once more, hard. Clint tried to squeeze him nice and tight, and it must have worked; he felt Phil coming, hot jets of it splattering the back of Clint’s balls, making him shiver and his soft dick leak another little pulse of come.

“You can stop now,” Phil said, and Clint let go of his nipples, letting his hands flop down to the bed. He felt pretty floppy all over, honestly, and it was so good. It was the best. _Phil_ was the best. Clint tried to tell him so, but it came out sort of scrambled, because apparently all Clint had needed was a good orgasm for his entire system to turn the lights out and roll down the shades; he was about thirty seconds away from passing out like he’d been wanting to do for about fourteen hours.

“Go ahead to sleep, Clint, I’ll take care of everything,” Phil said, and Clint distantly heard the nightstand drawer opening and the plastic swish noise of the wipe container, then felt a cool gentle swipe along his chest.

“‘Kay,” he said, and if Phil said anything else, he said it too late to catch up to Clint’s brain before the blessed unconsciousness did.

When Clint woke up, it was broad day, and the sun streaming through the windows pierced his eyes like it did every time he slept in. He closed them again, in no hurry to fully rouse; he felt warm and lazy, and he was lying on his pillows in his bed, naked under his soft sheets, and it was glorious. (Sadly, he no longer had a hot naked Phil wrapped around him, but it was getting on to noon on a work day, so that wasn’t surprising.) He stretched out, arching his back and pointing his toes, then rolled over in search of a cool spot without opening his eyes, not yet decided if he was going to get up or try to sleep more.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Phil said, and Clint jerked his head up in surprise, then winced when he managed to open his eyes right into the glare.

“Babe? What’re you doin’ home?” His voice was hoarse and he was squinting up at Phil like a startled owl, but he could feel the sappy grin tugging at his mouth; Phil was home. Had Phil stayed home for him?

“I’m taking some comp time,” Phil said. He was wearing his glasses, sitting cross-legged on top of the covers on his side of the bed with his laptop, a legal pad, three colors of pen, and a file folder arranged in front of him in a sort of fan. “It’s important to set a good example for work-life balance, you know. Make time for a personal life, leisure activities.” 

Clint looked skeptically between Phil and the laptop screen, which held an AAR form, a video player paused on some grainy surveillance footage, and a spreadsheet. “Your new leisure activity looks a lot like the analysis from that mission in Bristol last month.”

“Well, all right, technically I was teleworking this morning. _Now_ I’m taking comp time.” Phil hit a few keys and shut the laptop, then tidied his papers into a stack and slid the whole thing into his laptop bag, which he then closed and set down on the floor beside the bed. Clint took the opportunity to nestle into his hip, and Phil ran his hand through Clint’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Mmm, you can stop that never,” Clint said into Phil’s thigh.

“I’m glad you like it.” Phil squeezed the back of Clint’s neck for a moment, possessive and reassuring, and Clint hummed happily.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Phil asked, resuming his petting. “Things got a little more intense last night than I’d originally intended.” 

“I’m starving and really have to pee, but otherwise I feel amazing,” Clint said. “Hey, wait. Phil.” He turned a little so he could see Phil better without dislodging his hand. “Phillip Coulson, did you take time off work to give me _aftercare?_ ” 

“Of course,” Phil said. “Well, that and I missed you. I didn’t want you to wake up alone after last night, and I didn’t want to wait until after work to spend time with you. Plus, HR keeps sending me memos. Apparently my comp hour balance is problematic.”

“Your face is problematic,” Clint said, wriggling in delight. “Because of how it’s awesome. C’mere and kiss me.”

Phil smiled down at him, his eyes big and bright behind his glasses, and slid down the bed until he was propped up on one elbow next to Clint. He cupped Clint’s cheek gently, and bent over to kiss him—soft, tender, sweet. People at work would never believe how sweet Phil was, deep down. Clint giggled into the kiss, not because anything was funny, really, but because he felt so good and Phil was there, and everything was awesome.

When Phil pulled back, he was smiling indulgently. “All good?”

“ _So_ good,” Clint agreed, then his stomach grumbled loudly.

“Why don’t I make you some brunch?” Phil said. “I know you didn’t get a chance to shower last night. Go wash the plane off, take your time. I’ll have food ready when you get out.”

Clint took stock. He did feel a little gritty, still, and he was pretty sure there were still some traces of dried lube and come in his various nooks and crannies. Plus, he needed to brush his teeth so that he could kiss Phil some more without knocking him out with his breath. “Great idea.” 

Phil kissed his cheek again and got up. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Bacon and eggs okay?”

“Bacon and eggs is great.” Clint left the bed reluctantly and headed for the bathroom, scratching at his belly absently.

He turned on the water—it took a minute to heat up—and peered at himself in the mirror while it ran. His hair was all over the place and there was a hickey on his shoulder. His nipples were deep pink, prickling and sensitive, and when he brushed one with a curious fingertip it sent a jolt of delicious ache through him. The hot water was probably gonna sting.

He smirked at himself in the mirror and got in the shower. Clint didn’t consider himself a masochist, really—there was a certain threshold above which pain just triggered his anti-interrogation training, which was the opposite of sexy—but he’d always been a physical sort of person, and there was something satisfying about carrying the results of lovemaking around on his body. He liked the boost he got from it, the tiny chafe or ache that recalled what Phil had given him. He loved sitting in a meeting, holding back a little wince from a well-used ass and knowing it came courtesy of the man who sat beside him all polish and manners, taking notes with the long fingers that fit into the faint smudge of bruising on Clint’s hip. It felt like a secret, a triumph. 

They didn’t have any meetings today, though, so Clint let himself linger under the spray, hissing at the sting of the water and then lathering his fingers with soap to rub over his nipples again, slick and sore and so good, making his ass twitch and his dick fatten. Maybe later Clint could get Phil to tie him up and fuck him proper, maybe put a vibrator to his sensitized chest and hold it there until Clint yowled and twisted in his bonds, inexorable and overwhelming and perfect.

He stopped playing around before he just got too impatient and jerked off—he wasn’t gonna waste an orgasm on his own hand when Phil had played hooky to stay home with him—and wrapped up his morning routine, finally emerging from the bathroom fresh-breathed, well-shaved, and sparkling clean. He could smell coffee and bacon and hear happy cooking noises coming from the kitchen, so he pulled on a pair of his favorite underwear (smooth and stretchy and comfy, and the same rich purple as his collar; he’d bought like ten pair) and strolled down the hall, knowing he was grinning like a fool and not caring in the slightest.

Phil was stirring something at the stove, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he frowned a little in concentration. It was adorable. Clint leaned dramatically against the kitchen island, stretching and yawning with exaggerated enjoyment; Phil glanced up over the top of his glasses at him and grinned. Clint kinda wanted to slide the glasses right off his nose, kiss the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and then put the glasses back, but that would probably distract Phil from whatever fancy-ass kind of eggs required a jug of heavy cream, two kinds of cheese, and a ramekin of fresh chopped chives.

“Eggs’re almost ready,” Phil said, his voice like a blanket and an ice cream sundae and about fifteen other illogical, amazing things. “Grab a coffee and sit, I’ll bring plates out in a minute.” 

“Sure you don’t need any help?”

“Thank you, but I’ve got it. Just take it easy, sweetheart, let me take care of you.” 

Clint hummed happily, easily letting himself sink into the mood a little. When they’d first gotten together, he’d had trouble allowing himself to accept this kind of thing from Phil, had trouble believing that it wasn’t a bother. Now, though, he’d seen enough and they’d talked enough to know that Phil really did want to coddle him sometimes, wrap him up warm and safe and fed and loved and keep him there a while before they had to rejoin the real world. Clint liked doing nice stuff for Phil, too, of course, but it was different for Phil. It did something extra for Phil, made him look sleek and smug and pleased, as though Clint had spent the whole time sucking his cock or something.

Not that Clint didn’t do that too, sometimes. 

He went and fixed his coffee, doctoring one up for Phil at the same time and setting them down at their seats before going back into the kitchen, mainly just because the like eight whole feet between the stove and the table felt like too far away to be from Phil.

“You’re too good to me,” he said softly, watching Phil fold chives into a pan of golden, creamy eggs.

“No such thing,” Phil said, that little almost-a-dimple flashing in the corner of his smile. “I happen to know for a fact that you’re worth taking infinite pains.” He grabbed a piece of bacon from the platter at his elbow, and held it out. “Go on, sit down while I dish this up.”

Clint reached for the bacon, then changed his mind and nipped it directly out of Phil’s hand, getting a soft, indulgent smile for his trouble before he took his seat at the table. Phil brought out plates loaded with bacon and eggs and fresh fruit and croissants, almost too pretty to eat except for how the smell of it made Clint’s stomach growl again and his mouth water. He waited until Phil sat, then hitched his chair closer, sticking his leg out to bump against Phil’s.

“Welcome home,” Phil told him.

Clint beamed, feeling so happy he thought he might be glowing. “Hawaii was nice, but there’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

Phil’s eyes flicked over Clint, stopping at his damp and ruffled hair, his reddened nipples, the hickey on his shoulder. “It certainly has its appeals,” he said. “Though, I must admit, I spent most of last week in Fairbanks; I wouldn’t have minded some beach time myself.”

“Maybe we should take a vacation,” Clint said. “Run away together to Bora Bora or something.” He scooped up a bite of egg and moaned as the flavor hit his tongue. “God, that’s amazing, babe.”

Phil went a little pink, ducking his head and smiling shyly as he tore off a piece of croissant. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “I found the recipe on YouTube.”

“My man has many talents,” Clint said, then realized what he’d said and took a hurried bite of bacon. Phil didn’t look like he minded, though, his eyes wide and bright and happy, and Clint suddenly wanted to—to press his advantage, almost, except the opposite of how he did that in a fight; he wanted Phil to realize how amazing he was, how _good_ he was, how much Clint loved him.

“I’m a lucky bastard, Phil,” Clint said, once he’d swallowed. “I know it good and well. Don’t ever think I don’t.” He met Phil’s eyes, trying to push all his emotions out like telepathy beams or something, wanting to Phil to feel even a fraction as safe and loved and satisfied as he did.

“I’d say the same thing,” Phil said, and his voice was quiet, almost grave, but his face was lit with joy. “I think maybe that’s why we work.”

“Could be,” Clint said. He wanted to sit at Phil’s feet, he wanted to hug Phil forever, he wanted to kiss him, he wanted to worship his cock, he wanted to find the rarest, most special Captain America collectible and bring it to Phil just to see him smile. He wanted to keep Phil all to himself, and to go to a sex club wearing Phil’s collar and flaunt him to everyone else there.

“I love you,” Phil told him. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

Clint sighed, utterly content. “I love you too,” he said.

He ate. There was time for all the rest, after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wants to write the Hawkeye/Due South/Hawaii Five-0 crossover mission with the maple syrup mob, PLEASE DO AND LINK ME. I WANT TO READ IT. :)


End file.
